Les émotions d'aujourd'hui
by MsTonksLupin
Summary: Sans toi les émotions d'aujourd'hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d'autrefois. Amelie. That inspired the piece I dedicated to my man. Lay your back on the wall, lay back and let the sun blind you, the wall knows, he has seen much, years ago on the wall, a gamin had scribbled Rousseau's words. Don't look at me so fiercely, I don't know how to swim and I'm afraid.[...]


My fingers are caressing the accordion, flirting with the old keys, but the accordion is, in fact, a little bored.

Why are the keys staring at me like that? Why are they black and white, which silent film are they trying to imitate? The accordion has a headache, it needs some silence. Don't go silent for its sake, it is nice when you talk, leave it in its insecurities, it'll get over it. Talk, don't stop, keep talking like a philosopher in a 1830 café, if you had a pair of round spectacles you would unconsciously push them on your shiny nose, you don't need a pair, don't search for them. Why should your mouth be able to talk, when you place windows before your eyes? Let them talk, talk, I said.

You're asking me what I see in your eyes. I laugh. What kind of question is this? What could I see in your eyes? I see coffee!

French coffee, illegal and promiscuous, trying to seduce with its nakedness, so dark indeed, but letting you see through him, showing you what it wants to show you. And some other times you cannot see anything, because as an experienced French mistress, it knows how to cover what should be covered, until the mystery kills you.

How would it be to swim in coffee?

Don't try it, it's dark and deep as an abyss, and you know that from the moment you start to drown, you are never to go out again, but when really will you try drowning?

Don't look at me so fiercely, I don't know how to swim and I'm afraid.

Good morning. You've woken me. No, I don't want coffee, I want a bike. I don't know how to ride one, but the cobblestone knows, it will lead our way, don't you worry. It's been doing that for all those years. Cobblestone's been hit by the sun today, it's hot, it's a little dizzy. I'm not scared, I know you'll teach me how to ride a bike, but you don't need to, the cobblestone knows what to do even when dizzy.

Get dizzy, please. Get dizzy and let the streets, the people and the bistros to twirl around you. In the meantime I will trail my fingers on the back of your neck, upon the goosebumps.

Come and find me at Montmartre. Follow the signs. The mime who shows with his painted finger, the telescope, a boy throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons, a dog who's taken its lady out for a walk. Come and find me, you need to hold me tight on the carousel, because I might fall.

Lay your back on the wall, lay back and let the sun blind you, the wall knows, he has seen much, years ago on the wall, a gamin had scribbled Rousseau's words.  
I can kiss your knuckles. I want to kiss every single finger, to understand which has kept a pencil for longer.

Do you want to draw by the Seine? You don't know how to draw, but it's alright, your fingers would look better smudgy from the pencils. Here, you can draw me. What do you see in me?

You see dance.

Do you know how to waltz?

No, you don't know how to waltz. Let me tell you a secret. Neither do I. So hold me and let me totter and step on your feet. One two three, one two three. Don't breathe on me because I'll lose my mind, and I'll lose my step.

You want to eat. The boulangerie is painfully fetching, but I have no money in my pockets. You do, but before you manage to tell me, I have grabbed a baguette and I'm running. You run with me and ask me if I'm crazy. Were you expecting me to let you starve to death? You did have money? I didn't hear you telling me, really, but even if I had, I wanted to run. It was a good excuse.

They could throw me at the Bastille for a baguette. They could try. Do they know what I am? Only you.

My kitten heels are broken but it doesn't matter, I won't need them tonight, because there'll be stars up there, and we will lie down beside the Seine. One doesn't need shoes to lie down. You ask me if I am romantic. I answer that I'm just barefoot.

There are stars but they're all the same. What were you expecting to see? Something extraordinary? You raise your finger up in the sky and show me my name.

Really now, what is my name? I don't remember it.

You stare at me incredulously and make me feel stupid. Book, you say. That's right, my name is Book. Why? But because I have so much to say, you believe, and still I've been drunkenly rambling all this time.

It's raining and my dress is soaking wet. You stroke my hair and then bring your fingers on your lips. I'm asking you how the rain tastes. The rain is the woes, the guilt and the cries of the souls that once fell in the Seine.

Let's go bend over and look at the Seine, let's go see the souls in the water.

No, you don't want to. You show me the raindrops on your beard. This is my water. I should leave the souls rest.

We look up, there above the stars. What is there, who is there?

A failed author, you say. Really? Does he know he has failed?

I want to talk with him. Discuss our mutual failure. I know how he feels.

Why has he failed? Is he poor?

No, but the characters of his book ran away. They did whatever they wanted.

You are my author. You have written me, you have made me what I am. I am your Book. I am a barefoot book who wears a yellow ditsy dress, a book who believes in nothing.

I believe in you.

Let the world go round, and don't you worry if it forgets you behind, that will mean it'll have forgotten me with you.


End file.
